


Din'Ananshiral

by mysticmjolnir (empressmaude)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, literally me grinding out my feelings in ficlets instead of tweets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressmaude/pseuds/mysticmjolnir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six ficlets of varying lengths where Lavellan's story diverges. All of them end in her death. None of them are connected to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Din'Ananshiral

**Author's Note:**

> Grainne is pronounced _GRAWN-ya_
> 
>  
> 
> [Here is my twitter, please come and talk to me about Dragon Age](www.twitter.com/mysticmjolnir)

He is too weak. Despair gnaws at him, deep and dreadful and without pause. This waking nightmare of a life he has led for over a year will never end – unlike the life of this meddling innocent sobbing with pain beside him. The magic seared into her hand builds and burns, beyond his ability to curb even a little, and soon, very soon, it will rip apart her soul and he will flee, as far and fast as he can, to seek a way to undo his second worst mistake before this whole world is enslaved to a madman’s glory. 

The Dalish quickling is insensible, her eyes sometimes closed, sometimes wide open but seeing nothing. She is dying and calls out a dozen words an hour – names and nonsense and even colours – he tries not to listen to her garbled, broken prayers to sleeping monsters she thinks might save her; it is bad enough to be her murderer, he will not be her priest as well. At least her face is scarred by the delicate branches of Mythal rather than ought else. Solas is not certain he could have stomached sitting by her side for so long if she’d marked herself for Falon’Din.

“Ir’abelas, da’len,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles gently over hers, a pitiful gesture of remorse that she cannot register as she tosses restlessly in the cot, body curling around her ruined hand, instinctively trying to protect that which will take her life within the hour. 

No-one sees him leave the camp, and he is miles away before Cassandra barges into the tent to demand a status report and finds only a corpse, weak flickers of emerald magic still sparking from the elf’s dead hand. 

They rush to burn the body under the Seeker’s snarled orders, only to be interrupted by Sister Nightingale, who instructs they cut off the marked hand for study before tossing the rest onto the pyre.

~*~*~*~*

Lavellan refuses to join them the moment she realises they’re actually giving her a choice. Haven is cold and hurts her feet, and while the dwarf is okay and the hedge mage is interesting, the day that Grainne Lavellan puts her life into the hands of two Chantry shems is the day she puts a pair of horns on and turns into a halla. The Right one scowls and the Left one reminds her over and over again that she’s basically a fugitive but, joke’s on them, she’s Dalish, and a mage. Fugitive is her middle name – she was dancing past Templars before she should shoot sparks at them, and there is no human alive who can find her in a forest when she doesn’t want to be found yet. The mark on her hand doesn’t hurt anymore, and if there are Rifts to be sealed she’ll do it with her family at her back, not a bunch of blighted strangers. Besides, she made a very serious oath about not getting distracted on the way home, and Grainne Lavellan is not an oathbreaker.

They keep calling her a ‘Herald’, but she knows what the shems did to their last messiah. She would dearly love to have her missing memories back, but whatever they show won’t be worth the risk of being tied to a stake and set aflame the second the shems need an elf to blame. 

They all look a bit mournful to see her go, except Chancellor Roderick who just looks outraged (the words ‘knife-ear’ are permanently on the tip of his tongue, she can see them and her fingers itch for a blade to show him how well the Dalish take that insult). She dodges Varric on the way out, because he might have a more convincing argument than ‘you’re a fugitive’, and meets the hedge mage’s cold, hard stare with a glare of her own, and slips away into the snows.

She makes it all the way to the Waking Sea before she has any reason to regret it, and shortly after that she dies tongueless on a sharp altar, blood pouring from everywhere and all her oaths forgotten.

~*~*~*~*~*

The Inquistor has learned to smile through almost anything nowadays, even Fereldan humour over Fereldan food. It was easier a year ago, to smile through the pain and the frustration and the blood, when she actually felt like she was doing something, but, well, anything to keep Josephine happy and not jabbing forks into Lavellan’s thighs under the table. So, it’s not too difficult to smile through the slow, awful knowledge that she is dying, through the constant ache shooting through her entire arm, through being perpetually aware of the eternal crackle of energy in her palm, building to an explosion she’s not ready to unleash yet. 

She smiles at Leliana when they sip honey tea together in the rookery, and at Cassandra when she rushes through, stopping long enough to snatch whatever new information they have on the remaining missing Seekers. She smiles for Josephine when required (they are very sharp forks), and at Josephine during less tedious meals and meetings together. She doesn’t smile at Cullen, because it makes him nervous, but she doesn’t grimace with pain at him either, which would probably make him panic. She smiles at the Divine, at Bull, at Lace, at Varric’s funny letters, at the reports on Rainier’s progress. She smiles at Sera, even when Sera is tense and worried and will look anywhere but at the Anchor, and she makes sure if she ever has to smile at Cole then it’s at a distance. Cole still hasn’t got the hang of not blurting out thoughts that upset him, and that would probably break her now. 

She smiles and smiles and smiles through the jawache and the heartache and the Anchor shooting cramps up her shoulder, and silently counts the minutes until she can stop. There is no-one who can help her – she knows it, they searched for months for a Rift Mage as skilled as Solas and found nothing, and less than nothing when they looked for Solas himself. That hurts too, but not quite as much as the knowledge that she is dying, she is going to die, she is going to die and all she can do is wrap up as much Inquisition business as possible and kiss her friends goodbye and then run very fast to somewhere no-one will get hurt when everything goes glowy for the last time. Dorian would probably have something very cutting to say to that, but he’s not there either to talk to either. 

Sleeping is a thing of the distant past. Now Lavellan enjoys long nights of walking through the castle, cherishing her memories and occasionally sneaking into the wilderness to scream unhappily as the Anchor does it best to rip her into shreds.

She could cut it off of course, she’s thought a lot about cutting it off, but… It is wild, ancient, unknown magic, and there is every fucking chance the bloody thing will still exist on her severed hand, which is a nightmare she actually had before she gave up sleep altogether. While it is a part of her, she can control it, barely, and she knows it will die destroying her. It’s fine, really. For the best, in the end. The Rifts are all closed and the Breach is just a beautiful scar in the sky – there is nothing left to heal, and the Anchor is just a weapon now. Most people will be pleased to know it is gone. Some will even be pleased to know she has gone with it.

There is no risk leaving the Inquisition in the hands of Leliana and Josephine. They’ll tidy things up and find other good work to do, ready to put out the signal if such a force is ever needed again. But, it probably won’t. They aren’t due another Blight for at least another Age, and Corypheus was one of a kind. Probably. The Wardens haven’t mentioned any other ancient evil bastards locked up in prison, anyway. And if one does, there’s a group of people very experienced at kicking ancient evil arse ready to answer the call.

She’s going to leave in three days, after Cassandra’s scheduled visit, and head west, far west, to the Hissing Wastes. It’s not a pretty place to die, but it will probably be a very pretty death. If you like green.  
*  
She’s actually really good at travelling light and alone, from when she had a Clan. Leliana’s scouts are almost better, but after the time Leliana reads her letter they get less persistent. Or she gets better at running, it doesn’t matter which. She dresses like an ordinary peasant with very thick gloves, until she reaches the Wastes, when she throws off everything, including her very simple stave (regularly exploding with rift energy makes self-defence redundant), and starts wandering in her battered old halla leather coat from before the Breach was sealed, with enough provisions to last a few weeks. She knows where there is water, and things to read. 

_I never took you for such a bloody matyr_ , says the Dorian in her head, _or such a liar, you don’t know a word of ancient Dwarven_ , but then her hand explodes and she stops thinking of very much at all for a while.

“Vhenan,” someone whispers from above her. Lavellan is – is probably actually dead now, or so close as makes no difference, and she is lying propped up in someone’s lap, a cushion of soft fur at her cheek. She mumbles something in the fur and relaxes, prepared for this to be her last memory, a sweet Fade-dream to carry her through to where her Clan is waiting. 

Solas lifts her left hand up and presses a kiss against the palm. Instantly, it feels like her arm is her own again and she celebrates this by letting it drop dead into the sand when he lets go. “Ma serannas,” she sighs, chasing unseen grains with her fingertips. Her hand feels like it did fighting Corypheus – the rest of her, however, is too exhausted from dealing with the stress of the Anchor to notice. And neither of them were ever any shit at healing spells, let alone back from the brink of death spells.

Water drips through her hair and down her face. She feels very cold, her fingers numb. Solas is murmuring quietly through his tears, words she can barely hear and mean almost nothing now. She rubs her cheek against the fur, smiling weakly. So much for a pretty death.

Solas carries her body south, to the lush forests that she loved so much, and buries her with no ceremony at all, just grief. He knows, from the Fade and Emerald Forests and because she told him, that the Dalish honour their dead by planting a tree over the grave, and after some thought he honours her this way, in one of the very, very few rites that the Dalish made for themselves. Then he turns away, to continue his journey more alone than he had known it was possible to be.

~*~*~*~*

“Wicked little savage,” the Keeper calls her, wrathful and harsh with disappointment. “You are not fit to be our Second.”

Grainne looks at the earth, toes fidgeting with frustration. Stupid old woman. Should they let the humans hate them forever without cause? Should they hide in the forests forever, hoarding broken trinkets and telling old stories instead of making anything new? The Dalish will die like this, the Dalish are dying like this, and Grainne will do anything just to make things a little different.

The First walks over and take her staff. She clings to the wood for a moment, then lets go – there are other staffs. She can make her own staffs, in the wilds. 

“Am I banished?” she asks sullenly.

Deshanna snorts. “I would not set you loose upon the world,” she snaps. “You are our burden, and we will keep you. You are forbidden to leave camp – Dilenn will watch you and make sure you wreak no more strife upon either the humans or the Clan. I would take your vallaslin if I could - you are a vicious child, with no pride nor wisdom to truly serve yourself or the People.”

“I have more pride than you!” Grainne lashes out, finally lifting her head to look her Keeper in the face. “I will not hide, I will not be kept like a sick halla in the pen. Either kill me or let me go, hah’ren, for I will never submit to any chain, even yours. You know I am not alone, you know the others-”

“The others follow the ways of Andruil,” the Keeper interrupts, “And they know what loyalty is. You follow the Vir Balanhan, and know only darkness. I will not execute you, da’len, the Dalish do not spill their own blood. But I will not release you, to spread your poison and lead others to the Void in search of what you think is honour. Not even the Dread Wolf would take you, child, you have chosen a path that leads only to oblivion itself.”

Grainne lifts her chin high, and takes this as a compliment. She is not what the Keeper calls her, not one bit, but if the Keeper looks at her and sees only death, so be it. 

They don’t kill her, they lay her bound and unconscious in the deepest cave they can find and move the earth itself to keep her in. It’s a black prison, with only moss to suck the water from and worms to eat, and it holds her tight until she dies. A year later, they return, and the Clan weep bitter salt for their lost daughter, and make a bed for her within the earth alongside her victims. 

~*~*~*~*

“We were all young, once,” says Solas.

~*~*~*~*

“I will give you the truth,” he says, and then is silent, looking bleakly past her shoulder at a deposit of viridium in the stone beyond.

“Solas?” she prompts him softly, taking his hand. It’s a cool night, but his skin feels like ice, so different from their kiss a moment before. “Solas, what’s wrong? Tell me. What do you need?”

Beneath the aphonous moon, he tells her, with long-remembered speech and slow revelation and stilted confession, kneeling together in the wet grass, holding each other’s hands tightly through the ordeal. She believes him – he has imagined this moment many times, and never did he dare to think she would even look at him afterwards, let along clutch his hand tight enough to fuse them into one. They have the Well to thank for that, perhaps, the store of ancient knowledge and truths within her, echoing his words enough to carry her past the instinctive panic and rejection of his claims. She holds him as he weeps, describing a terrible world of muted colour and ignorance, her world, and he holds her as she weeps through the knowledge that everything she thought was truth is a jumbled snarl of mistakes and lies. He begs forgiveness for his error – the Orb, her magical wound – and she gives without pause, with a loving kiss and a sad sigh. 

He removes the awful vallaslin at her request, and looks at her, the most beautiful thing in this world or any other, even in the throes of grief. 

“What’s to be done?” she murmurs, more to herself than him. “There’s so much...” He kisses her words away, unable to tell her what is to be done. He cannot lie to her, but even now, even as she looks on him with eyes filled with love and new understanding, he cannot give her every truth. They still have a little time – Corypheus is the threat, the one that they can face side by side with no discord, and once he is dead other matters will arise for their attention. He reminds her of the magister, that he did not tell her this to distract her from the true enemy and she nods, smiling. “Together,” she says, sliding her arms about his waist and leaning into him. He hides his face in her throat, pressing a broken smile into her skin. 

~*~*~*~*

The Breach is hungry, and the fight against Corypheus took more out of her that she knew. Lavellan grits her teeth, tasting blood and magic in her mouth as she lifts the curst Orb into the air and spends everything she has left channelling the tremendous power of the Anchor and sealing the tear in the sky. Finally, with a ripple of power blasting through the air, the Breach closes up, the edges of the world knitting together over the slice of Fade in the air. It is done.

The Inquisitor falls gently to the ground, landing on the hard mosaic tiles. She is bleeding – a lot, she is bleeding a lot, bright red and green spilling all around her. Strong arms lift her against an armoured chest, voices screaming at her to stay awake, stay breathing, not to leave them. 

“Inquisitor, open your eyes, Maker no, no no-” “Fetch Dorian, fetch Vivienne, fetch SOMEONE-“ “No no no no no no no no wake the fuck up you can’t do this-“ “Where is Solas? Venhedis, he was here, a moment ago, where did he go, he should-“ 

She manages to turn in Cassandra’s arms, just enough strength left to grip slippery studded leather and lift her mouth higher. “Inquisitor,” whispers Cassandra as she bends her ear lower, her voice broken.

“Don’t let them burn me,” Lavellan breaths raggedly into her ear, then falls limp like a doll across the Seeker’s lap.


End file.
